“She’s still upset I didn’t invite her,” he said while turning out of our neighborhood. “Pretty pissed off.”
“It’s not your invite to extend,” I pointed out. “We’re going toMarco’shouse.”
“My words exactly.” Connor chuckled. “Marco actually told me I could bring her, but…” He trailed off and shook his head.
But what?I wondered.But she’s super clingy and you need a break from her?
Nevertheless, I smiled and punched him on the arm. Because for once, Connor McCallister realized not every get-together needed to be “the more, the merrier.”
On the drive down, we moaned and groaned about oursummer reading list, even though Connor loved audiobooks and I’d been reading a lot more lately. Both of us cheered when we crossed Stone Harbor’s causeway and drove through town. I’d been there before, so I smiled when we passed Bill’s Pancake House, the (bougie) Reeds hotel, and Hoy’s, the famous five-and-dime store. My mouth watered when I spotted kids licking giant ice cream cones.
Soon enough, Connor slowed to a stop at the Álvarezes. Their house was simple, its shingles painted a pale sea-glass green with white shutters that matched their white picket fence. A detached garage sat at the end of the crushed seashell driveway, and instead of a grassy front lawn, the yard was covered with beige pebbles. It was a quaint Jersey Shore cape built in the 1950s set amid grand new homes, but I knew if Marco’s parents decided to sell it, they could getmillions. Marco had mentioned the cottage was less than a block from the beach, and now, I could see his family owned a double lot. Someone would pay a king’s ransom to tear down their house and build some massive mansion in its place.
“Welcome!” Mrs. Álvarez called to us, the cottage’s screen door slamming shut behind her. I didn’t know her well but hugged her back when she pulled me into one. “Marco and my husband are out grabbing some lobsters for dinner,” she said after hugging Connor, “but they’ll be back soon.” She gestured to the house. “Let’s get you all set up!”
I immediately felt at home upon walking through the frontdoor into the family room. Eclectic paintings hung on the white shiplap walls, in between framed family photographs and wreaths made of seashells. Built-in bookshelves showed off worn paperbacks and jars of sand. Somewhere, a wind chime started singing. Connor and I made eye contact.
I love this place, I mouthed.
“My sister’s family is here, too,” Marco’s mom said as she led us down the hall, “but we’ve shoved her kids in the back bunk room.” She stopped outside two doors across from each other. “Connor, you can take Marco’s other twin bed.” She pointed to the right, then the left. “And Mads, Carina’s room is all yours.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Álvarez,” I said. “We’re so excited.”
“Oh, please, call me Rose.” She smiled and waved a hand. “I’ll let you get settled. Dinner will be around seven.”
Connor and I exchanged a look once she was gone, and I couldn’t help but laugh when he said: “When should I tell her I’m allergic to shellfish?”
***
We hit the beach at practically the crack of dawn. “We’ve got to,” Marco insisted, somehow carrying two beach chairs and a red-and-yellow-striped umbrella, while also pulling a wagon loaded with beach towels, shovels, and his cousins’ sandcastle-making equipment. “Otherwise, we won’t get a prime spot.”
Connor nodded midyawn. He’d never been an early riser.
Marco had walked to the beach barefoot, but Connor and I kicked off our flip-flops in the dunes before we claimed our territory. The white sand felt like soft sugar. Our “prime spot” included an unobstructed view of the blue-as-could-be Atlantic Ocean and was only ten yards away from the tall white wooden lifeguard stand. “Morning, Marco!” one lifeguard called, sporting a pair of aviators with a whistle around her neck. She looked familiar, her golden-brown curls in a carefree messy bun.
“Hey, Grace!” Marco waved. “Everett stationed somewhere else today?”
Ah, I realized as Marco wandered over to talk to her.Grace Barbour.
I’d forgotten how many kids from our town spent the summer on the Jersey Shore.
After I put on sunscreen, I tossed the Sun Bum to Connor. “You missed a spot,” I commented when he didn’t bother doing his back.
He sighed and handed over the sunscreen. “Will you? Please?”
“It would be an honor.” I smirked and squeezed some lotion into my palm, but hesitated before rubbing it in, as if I were afraid of Connor’s skin scorching my hands. My heart thudded once, twice, three times before I blinked and went to work.
“Mmm, that’s nice,” Connor murmured. “I didn’t realize I would also be getting a massage…”
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I was glad Connor couldn’tsee me. I hadn’t meant to give him a full-on massage. It was just—well, running my hands over his shoulder muscles felt good.
“We have to wait twenty minutes for it to soak in,” I said, swallowing hard. “Then we can go in the water.”
“That won’t be a problem,” he yawned for the umpteenth time as he unrolled his blue towel. “I’m gonna take a nap.”
“You do that.” I nodded, then wasted no time in taking a picture of him passed out to post on my Instagram story. I geotagged Stone Harbor.
Classic, Austin commented a minute later.
